


Beneath the Tree: Wincestmas 2017

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Curtain Fic, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Frottage, Gift Giving, Holidays, Implied Bottom Dean, M/M, POV Outsider, Panty Kink, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, but actually there's no penetrative sex at all, implied bottom Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 11:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Pieces for the Wincestmas gift exchange on Tumblr.





	1. Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> My pieces for the Wincestmas 2017 gift exchange. There was a shuffle-up early on in the challenge, so I only wrote ten days worth, plus the piece I contributed to the gift for the challenge moderator, for a total of 11 works. I tried to make them all holiday/winter related. I think I did pretty well. Aside from that, there isn't much consistency, except for the two parter. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is cherished.

**Snow Day**

 

Through some odd twist of fate, Sam is six before he has a real encounter with some serious snow.

Dad is wrapping up a case just outside of Buffalo when the storm hits. School is cancelled and Sam wakes to a blanket of white covering the front yard of the crummy rental they’re staying in. When he flies down the stairs to the warm kitchen, Dean’s sure his feet don’t touch the ground.

After forcing a bracing bowl of oatmeal into his little brother and shoving his nearly-too-small boots on over a triple layer of socks, Dean lets Sam out through the door and watches as he plunges through the knee-deep drifts.

“Dean, come on!” Sam shrieks, scooping up an armful of white powder and flinging it into the air, laughing in delight as it falls onto his upturned face. Dean hesitates, looking back at the sink full of dishes, but they’ve got all day. He bundles up as well as he can with what’s left of their warm weather gear and trudges out, picking his way in Sam’s small footprints.

Sam’s nowhere to be seen, but a trail of disturbed white hints to where he’s gone. Dean spreads his arms wide, breathing in deep so he feels his nose hairs freeze and his lungs ache with the cold.

He’s hit hard from behind and goes down with a powdery flump, face-first into a perfect heap of white. “Sam!” he splutters, thrashing around until he’s on his back, warm weight of his brother astride him. A double handful of snow is deposited neatly over his head, and through the blinding cold, Dean hears giggles.

They wrestle in the snow until they’re both dripping wet, and then they go inside and Dean makes hot cocoa with way too many mini marshmallows, just like Sammy likes.

Ten years later, they’re back in Buffalo. Against the odds, they rent the same crappy place. Dean remembers it, especially when they wake to find the yard deep in snow, just like before.

School’s not cancelled this time, but Sam skips anyways and after he chucks his breakfast dishes into the sink, he’s dressed and out in the snow with a shout. This time, Dean doesn’t spare the dishes a glance before he follows his brother out into the shining white morning.

He’s squinting against the glare of the sun on the snow when he’s hit from behind and now that Sam is as tall as him, Dean goes flying. He splutters in a faceful of wet until he feels hands on him, flipping him over.

Astride him, Sam is silhouetted by the sun from behind. Dean can just make out his golden skin - Sammy never loses his tan, no matter what the season - and the snow glittering on his long, girlish lashes.

Sam’s grin fades into something deeper, something more serious. He leans in until their lips touch, then further still. The tip of his nose is cold where it presses into Dean’s cheek, but his mouth is warm and tastes like marshmallows.

Then he’s up and gone and the sun is shining in Dean’s eyes again.

The snow is wet and cold, but Dean doesn’t feel it at all.


	2. Trimming the Tree

**Trimming the Tree**

 

Of course a case had come up. Of course they were a thousand miles away from the first real home they’d had in thirty years for the first Christmas since they’d found the Bunker. Of course the tree that Sam had insisted on buying was sitting in the dark, undecorated and drying out with no one to water it. That was the way things went for them. Sam wasn’t sulking.

Except that he was. Slouched in the passenger seat of the Impala with the window down, because even the South in December is hot. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the vinyl. God only knew what Dean was up to: he’d pulled into the mall parking lot and instructed Sam to “keep his sulky Sasquatch ass put” and disappeared inside.

The driver’s side door opened without ceremony and Dean climbed in. As Sam started to speak, Dean pulled something from inside his jacket and thrust it at his brother. 

A small red bag. Sam arched an eyebrow, pulling out the white tissue paper that stuck out of the top in decorative tufts. Dean looked resolutely away until he was sure Sam was focused on the contents of the bag.

Long fingers reached inside and withdrew a small ceramic ornament - the kind they have at the kiosks in the mall, where they write a personal message on the ornament and gouge you fifteen bucks for it. 

It was shaped like a moose, complete with a Santa hat, because why not? Sam skated his fingers over the glossy surface, to where “Bitch” was written in cute, girlish handwriting, right on the moose’s ceramic rump. 

Sam looked up at Dean, awestruck. Flushed dark, Dean flapped an impatient hand at the bag and Sam reached back in, pulling out another figure. A squirrel, of course, wearing a Buffalo plaid jacket, with “Jerk” printed on the left foot. 

“This is…” Sam started, trailing off. He stared at Dean, who glared back, jaw set stubbornly. 

Sam started to laugh.

“This is the cheesiest fucking thing,” he fought out between giggles, “you have ever done.” 

Dean fought hard to keep his face straight, but his lip quirked at Sam’s mirth. “I dunno,” he said dryly, snagging the bag from Sam and reaching into it. “This might actually be worse.”

He withdrew a third ornament, handing it to Sam. Wiping tears of laughter off his face, Sam’s giggles died in his throat at the sight of the ceramic house in his palm. “Our First Christmas” was written inside the heart-shaped wreath on the little front door of the house. 

When Sam looked up at Dean, there was no trace of laughter on his big brother’s face: only trepidation. Sam swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He carefully slid all three ornaments back into the bag and set it down on the seat between them, then reached out and closed his hand around Dean’s collar, dragging him forward.

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” he said softly, when they were close enough for their noses to brush. 

Dean laid his hand on Sam’s jaw, thumb stroking over stubble. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”


	3. A Toast to Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Dean had never gone to Stanford to get Sam? On Christmas Eve 2013, they run into each other in a grocery store in California. Inspired by Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne”: listen for maximum impact.

**A Toast to Innocence**

 

The touch on his shoulder made Dean jump and whirl around, boxes of salt tumbling from his hands to fall to the floor as he moved instinctually for his gun. The sight of the person who had touched him stopped his movements in their tracks.

Tall, taller than Dean had ever seen him, with hair longer than ever too. But it had been twelve years, after all.

Sam stood before him, hazel eyes wide.

“I thought - I saw you - _Dean_ ,” Sam stammered, raking a hand through that long hair. “I...what are you doing here?”

“Sam,” Dean faltered, tongue thick in his mouth. “I, uh - salt,” he said intelligently, motioning to the boxes on the floor. He knelt to retrieve them. One had split open, white grains like snow on the dingy grey tile. Sam laughed a bit awkwardly. “Right,” he said, dropping to a knee to help Dean gather the boxes.

Their fingers brushed as Dean took the last box, noting the gold ring on Sam’s left hand. “You’re married?” he asked abruptly, and Sam’s right hand flew to meet his left, long fingers twisting the ring. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “Jessica. She’s a lawyer too.”

“Too,” Dean echoed. “So you stuck with the - the law thing?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said. They stood awkwardly in the aisle until a lady edged past them, giving them a glare. Dean shook himself. “Sam, I should - ”

Sam reached out and took back a few of the boxes of salt. “C’mon, I’ll help you,” he offered, setting off towards the registers. Dean followed helplessly.

Whatever Sam had been in the store to get went unpurchased as the cashier rang up the eight boxes of salt, shooting them a puzzled look. Dean lifted the paper bag and headed for the exit, Sam at his heels in a distantly familiar way.

As they stepped out into the light snowfall, Dean hesitated. “Sam - ”

“Do - d’you wanna get a drink?” Sam blurted, snowflakes caught in that long brown hair. Dean blinked up at him, snow in his lashes too. “A drink?” He laughed despite himself. “Sam, it’s Christmas Eve. There’s no bars open.” He grinned. “I would know.”

Sam bit his lip, squinting around the parking lot. The OPEN sign still flashing blue and pink on the liquor store across the pavement caught his eye. “We could pick up something?”

“I - yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, ignoring the siren shrieking in his mind that it was time to go, time to get away. “Lemme put this away first.”

They picked their way across the slick parking lot toward Dean’s car. When he saw the Impala, sleek beneath her white mantle of snow, Sam’s eyes widened. As Dean opened the trunk and dropped the bag of salt boxes on top of the false bottom, he watched Sam drag a hesitant hand over the handle of the driver’s side back door. His face was reflected in the window of the car he’d spent his childhood in. “You still have her.”

“What else would I drive?” Dean scoffed. Sam looked at him, a strange expression on his face. “What about Dad?”

Dean paused before answering. As far as he knew, Sam and Dad hadn’t exchanged a word since 2001, when Dad had told him to leave and never come back. Sam had apparently taken the words to heart.

Over the next few years, Dean and his father had taken turns rolling through Palo Alto to check on Sam: watching him on the Stanford campus, hale and healthy and happy as a clam without his family, it seemed. Just after Dad had watched Sam’s graduation from the back of the crowd, he’d told Dean that he was done checking up on Sam. Sam didn’t need them anymore, he’d said.

Dean had disagreed, had made the drive once more, but as he watched his baby brother go down on one knee in the park in front of a pretty blonde girl - _Jessica_ , he thought bitterly, now he had a name to go along with that image seared forever in his head - he’d come to the same conclusion.

Sam really didn’t need them. Hadn’t for a long time.

He realized that he’d been standing in silence, Sam’s earnest eyes watching him. “Dad’s fine,” he said, answering the unasked question. “Got a pickup.” He closed the trunk and patted the metal lovingly. “Said she was too much effort to maintain.”

Sam’s throat worked visibly as he swallowed. His hand, still on the door handle, flexed. “Oh,” he said simply. He let go of the car. “Let me - I’ll go get us some beer.”

He turned and headed for the liquor store, leaving Dean in the snow. Dean passed a shaking hand over his face, ignoring the wetness from the melted snow. He debated just getting in the car and driving away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Before long, Sam returned, a four pack clutched in his hand. He looked rather shocked that Dean hadn’t left, but he said nothing. Dean unlocked the doors and they slid into the car. Sam passed a beer over to Dean, who cracked it open with his ring, then did the same for Sam’s.

Dean lifted his beer to his lips without clinking it against Sam’s. There wasn’t much to toast about. He swallowed before letting the next question slip from his lips. “You got kids?”

Sam choked on his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “Nah. We work too much.”

“Huh,” Dean said, somewhat surprised. Sam looked out the window. “What about you?” he addressed the glass. Dean snorted. “Fuck no.”

“Figured,” Sam continued, still talking to the window. “Figured you hadn’t - ” he cut himself off, looking down at his lap instead. Dean frowned. “Figured I hadn’t what?”

Sam didn’t look up. “Well, you’re not buying eight boxes of salt because you ran out in the pantry…”

“So you figured I hadn’t what?” Dean demanded, angry now. “Hadn’t done anything with my life? Hadn’t fucked off to school and abandoned my family? Hadn’t become a big-shot lawyer and gotten married without my father or brother there?” He drank, but it did nothing to quell the bitterness. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He glared out his own window. “Someone’s got to protect people from what’s out there. We can’t all just go on pretending it doesn’t exist.”

“I didn’t…” Again, Sam trailed off. He looked over and their eyes met, hazel and green. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean drained his beer, feeling like he needed to before he could get out an answer. “Yeah, that’s what you said when you left.”  

“I was sorry then,” Sam insisted. “I am now.” He picked at the label of his bottle. “I couldn’t...”

Silence fell like the snowflakes outside, cold and heavy. Then - “Are you happy?” Sam asked, draining his own bottle. He pulled another one from the pack, handing it across to Dean without looking at him. Dean frowned down at the bottle, cracking it open and drinking before replying. “It’s a relative term. Mostly, yeah, I guess.”

He looked over at Sam, let him finish his gulp before asking his own question. “Are you?”

Sam laughed sourly, then bit his lip, as if chagrined at his reaction. “Well, like you said, it’s a relative term.” The sentence was left dangling, and for some reason, Dean felt like he was being blamed for something. His next words were sharp, defensive to an offense that hadn’t really occurred. “Sam, I tried. I called a thousand times. For God’s sake, I _wrote_. And nothing. In twelve years, nothing.”

Those hazel eyes were unreadable when they met his own. “I know.”

Dean’s fingers tightened on the neck of his bottle. “I tried. I - fuck, I missed you. I loved - Jesus, Sammy.” The nickname, unspoken for over a decade, fell heavily from his lips and he watched it hit Sam like he’d thrown a punch. His brother closed his eyes and his lips thinned. His voice, when it came, was carefully controlled. “I _know_.”

He felt the pressure of tears behind his eyes, in the back of his throat. The question felt like it would kill him to ask, but keeping it inside would surely kill him. “Do you love her?”

“Dean - ”

“Forget it. Don’t answer.” Whether Sam said yes or no, Dean knew he couldn’t handle it. His eyes tracked to that band of gold on Sam’s finger, and as though he could feel the burn of Dean’s gaze, Sam curled his hand into a fist. “I never could lie to you,” he said tightly, and Dean felt his heart twist in his chest.

Sam tilted his bottle to drain the last few drops. He stuck it back in the pack. “I should go.”

Dean felt like he should laugh, but couldn’t summon the courage. “Where’s your car?”

Sam shook his head. “At home. Took the train today. It’s not running anymore, though.”

“Can I drop you off somewhere?”

“Nah. Bus is fine.”

“Sam - ”

But Sam’s hand was firm on the door handle. “It was good seeing you, Dean.” He looked down, and up again. “Really.”

Dean’s words had to fight past the lump in his throat. “You too, Sammy.”

Before he knew what was happening, Sam had lunged across the seat and sealed his lips against Dean’s own. His mouth was warm and tasted like beer. Just as Dean moved to respond, the lips were gone and cold air rushed in as Sam opened the car door.

He paused just before climbing out. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Then he was gone and Dean was alone in the car, the long-remembered taste of his little brother on his tongue.

Outside, the snow turned into a sleety, cold rain.


	4. Sparks (New Years Eve)

**Sparks**

 

Cara stamped her feet against the cold. New Year’s Eve fireworks in the park were a tradition, but this year was particularly blistering. Shoving her hands deep into her pockets, she scanned the crowd across the grass, milling around waiting for the show to begin.

A couple caught her eye - two guys, probably in their late twenties. They were both gorgeous, but it was the height of the brunette that was surprising. They jostled each other, laughing and joking, warm breath steaming in the cold air. 

Cara watched them idly, but the first crackle-hiss of a firework drew her attention away. She watched the colours bloom in the inky, star-strewn sky. After a few explosions, she glanced across at the two guys again. They were both watching the fireworks, the brunette with a misty look of reflection, the blonde with a mingled expression of deep love and steely resolve. 

As the next bloom of colour light up the sky, Cara watched the blonde lean up and press his lips against the brunette’s. He had to go on tiptoe to manage it, she noticed, with the taller guy’s face tipped up toward the sky. The kiss seemed unexpected, but not unwanted - the taller guy’s hand came up to cradle the blonde’s jaw. 

When they pulled apart, the brunette’s surprised face was tinted pink, then blue, then green with the fireworks. He said something, looking down into the blonde’s eyes, and Cara wished she could read lips. The blonde replied, and whatever was in his words made the other man’s eyes glow with tears. 

The fireworks finished with a spectacular volley and the crowd began to break up. Purposefully, Cara headed across the grass, to where the couple still stood. She passed by close enough to catch a snippet of their conversation.

“Why now?” The brunette was saying, smiling down at the blonde. This close, Cara could see the emerald eyes on the shorter man, sparking up at his partner. 

“It’s my New Years resolution, Sammy,” he said brightly. “Stop denying myself what I want.”

He settled his hand into the taller man’s and they set off, just ahead of Cara. “And besides,” the blonde continued, “fireworks have always been special for us.”


	5. Resolutions (New Years Day)

**Resolutions**

 

They reach the motel parking lot, still hand in hand.

A few doors down from their room, a bunch of teenagers are setting off fireworks of their own. Dean watches them with a look that makes Sam tug him away, before he can go over and ask to join them.

They’ve got better things to do, anyways.

Inside, they shuck their jackets and boots. Dean has barely kicked off his boot and narrowly avoided stepping in a puddle of melted snow, when Sam grabs him by the hand again, pulling him over to in front of his bed. “Wanna know my resolution?” he asks quietly. 

Dean tilts his face up to hear the answer, and a flower of green sparks from the window floods over his skin, making his eyes glow. “Sure.”

“I resolve to never stop doing this.” Sam leans in and captures his brother’s lips with his own.

They kiss lazily, without deeper intent, for a few minutes, until Dean breaks away with a smile. “I resolve to let you do it as often as you want.”

Then his hands come out and give Sam a firm shove, so that he folds to fall backward onto the bed. “I’ve got a few other resolutions too.”

The air in the room suddenly seems too thin and Sam’s chest starts to rise and fall faster. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Dean knees his way onto the bed, legs on either side of Sam’s hips, straddling him. His hands fall to Sam’s shirt buttons. “I resolve,” he said huskily, working at the buttons, “to keep you,” the buttons are done now and he tugs at the sleeves, Sam raising himself up to let the shirt be pulled out from under him, “as naked as possible,” Dean is pulling at his undershirt now, up and over Sam’s head, smoothing his hair back into place after, “as often as possible.”

Unable to find words, Sam can only groan as Dean plucks at his nipples, hardened into peaks at the chill air in the room. Dean grins at him, bending to take one stiff point into his warm mouth and Sam gasps at the feeling of his brother’s wet tongue laving over his skin. “I resolve,” he grinds out, “to let you do whatever you want.”

He feels as well as hears Dean’s answering growl, uttered into the flesh of his neck where it meets his shoulder. Suddenly acutely aware of his aching cock still trapped in his jeans, Sam rolls his hips upwards and feels Dean shudder when they grind together. “Fuck, Sam.” 

Dean rears up and the cool air rushes in to take his place, but he’s gone only long enough to rip off his own shirts and every other stitch of clothing, taking no notice of the temperature. He drags Sam bodily across the bed to unbutton his jeans and yank them off, before he’s back to blanket Sam’s body with his skin, warm and flushed with desire.

At the first touch of their naked cocks together - Dean slick with precome, leaving a wet smear on Sam’s hip - Sam gasps again, hands flying down to grip Dean’s ass with long fingers digging into the flesh. He wanted to take it slow, revel in every second of their first time, but now that Dean is atop him like a living blanket of sex, all thoughts of slow and steady have flown out of his head. He’s mindless now, hips rutting up helplessly to crush them together harder. 

As though Dean is inside his head, he dips down to hiss into Sam’s ear. “I resolve to take it slow,” he whispers, teeth catching on the shell of Sam’s ear, “...next time.”

Sam digs his fingers deeper into Dean’s ass, pulling him closer, tighter. They slide together on a slick wash of precome, both of them leaking like taps, and Sam can feel his release coiling at the base of his spine. “Dean, god,” he gets out, before Dean’s lips are on his again, more an artless slide of mouth and tongue than a proper kiss. 

“Gnuh,” Dean grunts a few seconds later, “-Sam,” and then he’s seizing up above Sam, muscles drawing tight, one last thrust giving him all he needs to spill between them, hot wet pulses that seem as though they’re being dragged out of his very core. He trembles above Sam, eyes wide and staring into nothing, a thin sliver of green circles around black pupil. 

Sam arches into him, desperate to feel each stream of come as it slicks the places where they’re pressed together. He pulls Dean’s slackening body down once more, twice, before he falls over the edge, and somehow Dean gathers enough strength to wrap his arms tight around his brother, until the growing mess between them squelches loudly and Sam has come down from his peak. 

They lie together, breathing through the aftershocks, heaving chest against heaving chest. Dean’s weight is almost too much to bear, slumped as he is across Sam’s ribs, but Sam wouldn’t have him move for anything on earth. He noses against Dean’s jaw. “Didn’t you say something about next time?”

Dean’s response is a moan, laced with exhaustion and need. Sam noses harder. “Can’t have you breaking resolutions so early in the year.” 

Dean chuckles, the sound and movement rolling through his body. “Easy, tiger,” he says, low and rough, and Sam is transported back to the apartment he’d shared with Jessica, when he’d been pinned beneath Dean for the first time in years, and heard those same words. 

“The year might be young,” Dean goes on, “but I’m not so young anymore. I need a minute. Or ten.”

Sam slips a hand between them, into the sticky, quickly cooling mess. “Bet I can get you there sooner.” He starts to stroke and feels Dean’s cock twitch valiantly against his skin. “Ten, nine, eight..."


	6. I Still See You in the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Snow" by Jome.

**I Still See You in the Snow**

 

It doesn’t snow in Palo Alto.

Sam’s not bothered by it, at first. They’ve spent more time in places without snow than with it, after all. He’d been six before he had a serious encounter with it. He’s more at home in warm climes anyways: as much as he can be at home anywhere.

But the postcard from Dean changes everything.

It’s his second winter away. Just over fifteen months, and every word from Dean still punches him hard in the heart. 

This one is from Colorado, a snow-capped mountain scene on the front, and line after line of Dean’s weird, spiky handwriting on the back. Sam traces his fingers over the letters, like they’re Braille. Like they hold a bit of Dean that he might be able to touch, just for a second.

_ Sammy, _

_ Merry Christmas geekboy. And Happy New Year, I guess, by the time you get this. _

_ In Colorado, obviously. Hunting some kinda weird snow monster thing. Keep calling it the Abominable Snowman and quoting that Bugs Bunny cartoon with him and Daffy and the snowman guy. Dad not amused. May bludgeon me to death with decorative showshoes on motel wall. Worth it. _

_ Snowy as fuck here. Knee-deep, most days. Makes me think of you. Was gonna make a snow angel the other day, but no one around to add devil horns to the head. Didn’t bother.  _

_ Guess you don’t get snow down there in sunny California. Don’t know why you stay.  _ _ O̶r̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶n̶t̶.̶ _

_ Talk soon. Love you, huge sad nerdy geekboy. _

_ \--Dean _

It’s raining now; Sam sees water droplets beading on the window.

Close, but not close enough. 


	7. Wrapped in Red

**Wrapped in Red**

 

The eggnog was strong, the tree was glowing softly in the corner, and the chicken dinner Dean had spent all day working on (“Get out of this kitchen, Sam, before I stuff  _ you _ .") has been been reduced to bones and trimming. They were sunk low in leather armchairs before the fire in the study, bellies distended with good food.

Christmas had become a thing, slowly, since their relationship had changed from brothers to lovers. Each year, they went a little further. This year was the first time a tree that wasn't made of beer cans was involved: Dean had picked it up at the grocery store, the poor little scraggly thing, and carefully decorated it with a few dusty strings of lights he'd unearthed from some lost corner of the Bunker. It was pretty, albeit in a bit of a sad Charlie Brown way; not that there was anything on earth that would compel Sam to tell Dean it was anything other than perfect. 

Sam took a deep swallow of his eggnog - another of Dean's mysterious closed-door kitchen creations - and sighed contentedly. It wasn't often they got a chance to just relax and do normal apple-pie stuff. These were moments to be cherished. 

Across from him, Dean was fidgeting in his armchair. Sam cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “What?” 

Dean bit his lip, started to stand, and sat back down again. Sam set down his eggnog. “Dude, what? You look like you're trying to sit on a hot stove.”

That earned him a half-hearted glare. Dean shifted in his seat, only helping Sam's analogy. Finally, he muttered “Oh, hell,” and got up. He walked over to the tree and retrieved a small red box that had been nestled in the branches. Sam wasn't sure how he had missed it. 

“Here,” Dean said brusquely, shoving the box into Sam's hands and sinking back into his chair, looking quite like he hoped it would swallow him up. 

Sam grinned at him and lifted the lid from the small box. He set it down on his lap and withdrew the item inside. 

Panties. Black satin, slippery and smooth, and fairly simple: no lace or ribbons adorning them. Sam let them dangle from one long finger and looked up at his brother. 

Dean was looking steadily away, but Sam could see the flush that painted his face to the roots of his hair. Sam set the box on the table, neatly folding the panties back into it and rising to his feet to stand in front of Dean’s chair. “Dean.”

Dean was still looking resolutely anywhere but his brother's face. “Forget it, it was stupid,” he said quickly. Sam reached for his face, feeling the heat of his blush under his fingers as he turned Dean’s face upwards. 

Sam lifted the hem of his loose knit sweater, tugging it high enough to reveal the red velvet ribbon tied around his waist. “Your turn,” he said softly. Dean stared up at him for a few seconds before reaching for the bow, warm fingers brushing against Sam's skin as he pulled the ribbon loose. 

As it fell to the floor, Sam slid his jeans down to the floor and stepped out of them. He was naked beneath, save for a pair of black lace panties. 

They were cut high on his hips, clinging to his hipbones and dipping down below his navel, following the curves of his body. His skin peeked through the material, golden in the light of the Christmas tree. He did a slow turn, revealing the boyshort cut that let his asscheeks show just a little, and when he came back around to face his brother, Dean’s eyes were the size of saucers.

“Sammy,” he breathed, raising a shaking hand to trace his finger over the curve of Sam’s cock, straining at the lace. The head glistened wet with precome, peeking out over the waistband, and when Dean dipped the finger into the slit, Sam inhaled sharply. 

He pulled the sweater up over his head and pushed Dean back deeper into the chair, and climbed into his lap, knees tucked on either side of Dean’s legs. “You like?” he said, almost bashful despite his sex-kitten attire. 

Dean’s hands slid up the firm muscle in Sam’s legs, inching towards the black fabric. “Oh, God,” he groaned, skating his fingers underneath the panties where they stretched over Sam’s thighs. “So pretty for me, little brother.”

Trembling with the praise, Sam leaned in. “Tomorrow,” he said huskily, pulling back just enough to see Dean’s eyelids fluttering at the sound of his sex-drenched voice, “I’ll wear your pair.”


	8. Wrapped in Black

**Wrapped in Black**

 

When Dean wakes up, he’s alone - and naked - in the bed. 

It’s impossible to tell from inside the Bunker what time of day it is, so Dean squints to try and make out the numbers on Sam’s clock, across the room on his desk. After a minute or two of straining his eyes, Dean swears under his breath and gets up. The floor is cold under his feet.

9:32am - or too damn early to be up. Dean shuffles back to the bed, but the memory foam is cold and lonely. 

Where the heck is Sam?

Like the answer to a prayer, Sam appears in the doorway. The sight of him makes Dean sit bolt upright in the bed. 

Sam’s wearing Dean’s dead guy robe, something he’d previously refused to do; it’s tied loosely around his waist, open enough that Dean can see that the only other stitch of clothing on him is Dean’s Christmas gift.

The satin panties are almost too small: they’re stretched over Sam’s muscular thighs and strain over his half-hard dick. “Morning.”

“Is it still Christmas?” Dean purrs, patting the bed. “‘Cause I see something I wanna unwrap.”

“Nuh uh.” Sam crosses the room but stands next to the bed, just out of reach, unless Dean wants to lunge. 

“Whaddya mean nuh uh?” Dean asks, pouting up at his brother. Sam shakes his head willfully. “Wanna fuck you.”

Dean blinks. “Oh. Yeah, okay.” Sam doesn’t ask to top very often, but Dean’s always up for a trade. He makes grabby hands at Sam, who shakes his head again. “Nuh uh.”

“Nuh uh what now?” 

In answer, Sam slips off Dean’s robe, letting it pool on the floor. “Wanna fuck you,” he repeats, then hooks his fingers in the waistband of the panties and tugs them down, stepping out of them and holding them up in front of Dean’s eyes. “While you’re wearing these,” he finishes. 

Dean gapes. He hasn’t worn panties since that night - okay, weekend - with Rhonda Hurley. That was 20 years ago. But Sam is standing there, panties dangling from one long finger, expectant look on his face. 

Dean’s never been good at saying no to Sammy.

He stands up and snatches the underwear from Sam’s hand. They’re still warm. Sam takes his place on the bed, settling in like he’s about to watch a movie. Dean sighs. If he’s gonna do this, he may as well do it right.

He steps into the panties, wriggling them to his knees before turning around. He slides them up further, like a reverse striptease, dragging them inch by inch up his legs. The whisper of the satin against his bare skin is definitely of interest to his dick.

When he reaches his ass, he pulls the underwear slowly up, smoothing a hand over his cheeks to tug them the last inch. He’s hard now, and the fabric sliding against his shaft makes him shiver. The material strains where it’s stretched over him.

Finished, he looks back over his shoulder coquettishly. Sam’s eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown out, and Dean wonders briefly how Sam managed to let him finish. “So, you wanna just tug them to the side like this or what?” he asks, hooking a finger in the leg of the panties and pulling them aside to reveal the pink of his hole. 

Sam’s answer is the hungry hands he gets on his brother, flinging him bodily onto the bed.


	9. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after 11x13 "Love Hurts"

**Reflection**

 

“What’s a dad bod?”

Sam blinked, looking up from the screen. “What?”

“Night before last. Before the whole quareen thing. Some girl at the bar said she wasn’t into dad bods.” Dean toed off his shoes, his face puzzled.

Sam arched an eyebrow. “What were you saying to a girl in order to have her tell you she isn’t into dad bods?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I was just making conversation, she took it the wrong way.”

Grinning, Sam turned his attention back to his computer. After a minute, something flew across the room, draping itself over his head. He pulled it off - a dirty sock. “Hey!”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dean said innocently. He sat down at the table across from Sam and pulled his double bacon cheeseburger from the bag, opening the wrapper and dumping his fries onto it. 

“What question?” Sam flung the sock back across the table at Dean, but it took a weird curve and ended up on the floor next to their bed. Dean smirked around the soda straw in his mouth. 

“What’s a dad bod?” he continued after a long slurp of soda. 

Sam pursed his lips. Sometimes, Dean got sensitive over stuff like this. But those big green eyes were looking at him imploringly, so Sam closed his laptop lid and set it aside, reaching for the salad container in the bag. 

“It’s, uh - well, it’s like dads don’t have a lot of time to, uh, work out and stuff, and they drink a bit too much beer, and they’re getting older, so they start to get a bit...soft around the middle. Less defined.” 

Dean’s face falling was like watching a puppy get kicked. Sam hastened to continue. “It’s not a bad thing! Some people are attracted to it, it’s like, uh, like a guy that provides for his family and lives a comfortable life, he doesn’t need to work out all the time or be crazy muscley. That kinda thing.”

The words sounded lame in his head and more lame coming from his mouth. Dean set down his burger and pushed the food away, and was looking down at his stomach. 

“Dean,” Sam started, but Dean got up. “Not hungry,” he said shortly. He stalked away, pausing to rifle through his bag and grab some clothes before heading into the bathroom. Sam heard the shower start, but he'd put money down that Dean was standing in front of the mirror, prodding at his belly. 

He emerged a short time later, in fresh shorts and a hoodie. Sam frowned: Dean in a hoodie brought back bad memories. He didn't comment. 

Dean sat back down in front of his burger, eyeing it critically. He began to dissect it: the bacon was pulled off and set aside with a look of distress; the cheese, scraped carefully from patty and bun, joined it presently. The mayo was also scraped off the top bun with Dean's finger, which was wiped with a napkin and not licked clean. He reassembled the sandwich and gave it a frown before biting in.

Sam just heaved a sigh.

Things were rough for the next few weeks. Dean started ordering more salads and low-calorie options when they got food, which he would eat with a sour look on his face. He also began joining Sam on his morning runs, which was frustrating for both of them: when pushed, Dean was fast as hell, Sam knew full well - at top speed, Dean would outstrip him easily, longer legs not withstanding. But Dean was a sprinter, a hundred yard dash man. He wasn't, unlike Sam, a distance runner. Which meant he spent most of Sam's five mile standard lagging twenty feet behind, red-faced and breathing hard. Invariably, when they got back home, Dean would accuse Sam of trying to beat him on purpose. 

By the end of three weeks, Sam was ready to kill him.

Dean had tried this sort of thing before, when the Mark of Cain had been warping his personality: the healthy eating, no booze, serenity now attitude. It hasn't worked very well then, and he'd had better motivation than just being told he was a little soft around the middle: like not killing his brother and everyone else they loved in a violence-fueled rampage. 

Dean was stubborn as hell, but this just wasn't his lifestyle, try as he might. 

Sam had to take some drastic measures. 

So he did some research, invented a case, and dragged them off to the seedier side of a small town near Atlantic City, with the promise that yes, they would stop at the gaming tables. 

Opening the door to their motel room, Dean stopped dead in the doorway. “Sam, what the fuck is this?”

Sam shoved him forward, propelling him into the room. “Our room,” he said innocently. “Why, what's wrong?”

Dean motioned furiously to the room in general, although Sam was pretty sure he was referring to the north and south walls, which were entirely mirrored. 

“For God's sake”, Dean muttered, casting a sour look upward. The ceiling was mirrored too: and not just above the bed. 

“I'm getting another room,” Dean said sharply.

“Oh, this is the only room available,” Sam replied cheerfully. Dean turned on his heel, making for the door. “Then I'm going to another motel. Or sleeping in the car.” 

Sam grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “No, you're not,” he said reasonably. “You're staying here. With me. All of me,” he grinned, looking at the double reflections of them, repeating into infinity. 

“One of you is bad enough,” Dean grumbled mutinously, but he tossed his bag onto the king-size bed. “Fine”, he said. “Let's get changed. Fed suits?”

“Oh, there's no case,” Sam continued brightly.

“Sam, I will kill you where you stand.” With his jaw clenched and murder in his eyes, Dean looked fully capable. 

“No you won't,” Sam went on, unconcerned. “Because remember when we went to that classic car show back in October?”

“No,” Dean said immediately.

“And you begged me to come with you?”

“No idea what you're talking about.”

“And I came but I told you that you owed me a big, unrefusable favour?”

“I have no recollection of this event.”

“Well, get your wallet out, cause it's time to pay up.” 

Dean half-reached for his wallet. “I will literally give you money to not make me do this.”

“I'm not making you do anything.”

“Yeah, except get naked in front of a fucking wall of mirrors,” Dean scoffed. His words were annoyed, but Sam saw the genuine fear in his eyes. He reached for Dean, wrapped his arms around him, looking at him seriously.

“I won't make you do anything,” he said softly. “I'm asking you to take off your clothes and make love to me.”

Dean squirmed in his arms, but Sam could feel his dick filling where it was pressed into Sam's leg. "Fine," he said petulantly. He tipped his face upwards, seeking a kiss. Sam was happy to provide. 

They made out for a while, until they were both hard and aching in their pants. “Will you get undressed?” Sam asked, lifting his mouth from Dean's throat. Dean hummed in agreement and Sam smiled at the vibration, kissing Dean’s Adam’s apple. 

They stripped down quickly, and Dean made to get into the bed, but Sam shook his head. “No, no hiding under the covers. I picked this place for a reason.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbled, “to torture me.”

Sam pushed him over to stand in front of the mirror, coming up tight behind him. “Look, Dean,” he encouraged, hands on his brother’s shoulders. He felt Dean tense, saw him suck his stomach in. “I’ll tell you what I see.” 

He stroked his fingertips down Dean’s flanks, feeling him shiver. “I see broad, strong shoulders.” He kissed along the line of Dean’s neck where it met his shoulder. “Shoulders that can - and have - carry the weight of the world.” 

He brought his hands up to smooth down Dean’s arms. “I see beautiful arms, which have been holding me tight since the day I was born.”

Dean’s eyes were glittering suspiciously. “Sammy,” he started, voice rough, but Sam shushed him, moving his hands to his brother’s chest. “I see a big chest; big enough to hold the biggest heart in the world.” He tweaked Dean’s nipples as he moves downward and Dean made a hungry sound. 

He reached Dean’s stomach, pushing gently. The strong abdominals that were hidden under a soft top layer pushed back against him. “I see a stomach that can handle the worst the world has to offer - and any bacon cheeseburger it comes in contact with.” Dean snorted at that.

Sam stroked down over Dean’s thick thighs. “I see long, strong legs that carry me every day, without stumbling.” 

Grinning now, Sam curled his arms around Dean to wrap his hand around his brother’s dick, hard and weeping against his stomach. “And this isn’t too bad either,” he teased, working Dean with his fist until he was thrusting helplessly into the touch. 

“I see the most beautiful man God ever created,” Sam whispered, lips against the soft curl of Dean’s ear. “And I thank Him every day for giving that man to me, to love and to love me.”

Those were definitely tears in Dean’s green eyes. “Okay, Sammy,” he said. “You’ve made your point.” He turned around, wrapping Sam in his arms. “Now let’s make good use of these mirrors.”

Over Dean’s shoulder, Sam watched their reflections, unending and forever.


	10. Frozen Heart

**Frozen Heart**

 

The cabin is drafty and without heat, because of course it is. Dad dumps them off with a load of firewood and a promise he’ll be back in a week. Dean believes it. Sam does not.

Dean lays a fire and drags the stained mattress off the bed, pulling it in front of the hearth. “Get the sleeping bags, Sammy,” he instructs his brother, poking carefully at his fire.

Sam makes a face - Dean’s not looking, but he can _hear_ it. “Get them yourself. I’m not your slave.”

Dean suppresses a sigh. Sam is fifteen and sour all the time. Dean gets it, he does, but he’d also like to punch Sam in his smart mouth sometimes. Like now.

With a carefully controlled voice, he tries again. “Could you please get the sleeping bags?”

Sam scuffs his feet across the floor. “I’m not sharing with you.”

Satisfied with his fire, Dean looks up. “Why not?”

Bitchface eyes from across the room. “‘Cause I said so.”

“Too bad,” Dean says. “It’s cold as fuck in here. We need the body heat.”

“Well, if we went somewhere with, oh I don’t know, fucking _heat_?”

Dean motions to the window. “It’s snowing like a bitch and Dad has the car. What are you gonna do, walk to the nearest motel?”

Sam throws the sleeping bags as hard as he can at Dean, who dives to stop one from rolling into the fireplace. “Shit, Sam, stop being an ass!”

“I’m sick of this!” Sam yells back, kicking a chair viciously. “I’m sick of Dad dumping us wherever whenever, without the fucking basic necessities of life! I’m _done_!”

He crosses the room and yanks the door open. Ignoring Dean’s “Sammy!”, he’s out and into the snow.

“I swear to God, Sam, I am not coming after you!” Dean shouts at the slammed door. He glares at the unoffending wood. Sam can freeze to death if he wants. He’s not setting one foot outside this fucking cabin.

After four hours, with darkness falling, Dean’s resolve is crumbling. He’s saved from having to go out in the snowy dusk to seek out his brother when Sam stumbles into the cabin, blue-tinged and shaking.

Argument forgotten, Dean is on his feet in an instant. He catches Sam’s hands in his own; they’re like ice. “Sam, you _fucking_ idiot.” Relief sounds a lot like anger, but he can’t help himself.

Sam doesn’t reply, just lets Dean strip him down to his underwear and bundle him onto the mattress in front of the roaring fire. He looks up mutely at Dean, big eyes contrite and pleading, and Dean shucks his own clothes until he’s also clad only in loose boxers, and climbs onto the mattress, wrapping Sam in both the sleeping bag and his own warm arms.

Sam shivers, burying deeper against his brother. His nose is cold where it’s pressed into Dean’s neck. “I hate when you do shit like this,” Dean murmurs, stroking up and down Sam’s arms. “Scares me.”

Choking on a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob, Sam wraps his own arms around Dean as tight as he can, octopus-like. “I’m sorry,” he says, barely audible.

Dean sighs. “I know, man. I know.”

There are a thousand things to blame their situation on, Dean knows. Dad and the demon and the weather and God and who knows what else. But with Sam thawing in his arms, all Dean can do is thank the stars for always bringing his brother back to him.


	11. Winter's End

**Winter’s End**

 

The snow is white and deep and stained crimson with Dean's blood. 

Sam's knees are soaked through where he's on them beside Dean, but he doesn't notice the cold, the wet. He can't see anything but his brother. His bloody hand is pressed over his mouth in horror. 

Nothing has worked. Sam is out of options and Dean is choking on a fresh rush of blood that seeps through his stained lips. 

His green eyes are wide, but not with panic or fear. Instead, they're full with the deepest love Sam has ever seen - brotherly and beyond. He coughs again, and the blood is too thick for him to speak, but his eyes are doing the talking for him. 

He reaches out, seeking Sam's hand, pulling it down from his face, leaving a bloody handprint  behind. He squeezes Sam’s hand; once, and again, and then lays it over his heart.

Sam feels it beat for the last time. 

The nearest crossroads is 2.3 miles away. Sam's taken to looking them up beforehand. He doesn't like to be unprepared. 

He knows he needs to get up, head for the spot. He's got everything he needs in the car. He doesn't know if anyone will come to deal with a Winchester, but demons are dumb. Someone will be willing to hear him, if he screams loud enough. 

He's rooted to the spot, though, Dean's sightless eyes still too hard to leave. His hand is still warm where it's loosely clasped in Sam's, over his still, silent heart. 

Sam will get up.

He will.

In a minute more.

Then a shadow falls over them, dark against the white snow, and Sam doesn't need to look up to see who it is. 

“You can't. You can't take him.”

“Sam.” Billie’s voice is soft, gentle, the kindest he's ever heard her. It doesn't give him any hope. If fact, it's worse: she's telling him, without saying it, that there's nothing to be done. 

Still, he's got to try. “You can't. Take me instead.” He looks up at her then, her black-clad figure hazy behind the film of tears over his eyes. “I can't - ”

He breaks off, trying to fight through the sob building in his throat. “I can't lose him. I can't let him go.” 

He drops his head down, back to Dean's empty eyes. Above him, Billie speaks softly. “I know, Sam. I know you can't.” Her hand comes down to stroke over his hair, motherly, an emotion he never expected from her. Her hand comes away smudged with blood: Dean's blood, from where Sam raked his hands through his hair in desperation. “But you know I can't bring him back. Not this time.”

He'd never expected anything different, but the words still punch him hard in the gut. “You have to,” he begs, lost to his desperation now, tears streaming over his cheeks. He knows they're washing away the blood on his face and hates it, wants it there forever, to keep as much of Dean with him as long as he can. “You have to. I can't. Not without him.”

She's inexorable. “Sam, I can't. There's only one choice.”

Her words strike him, lighting a fire in his heart. A choice. An option. Something to cling to. 

He knows what it is before she goes on. 

“You have to come with me.” 

It's not even an option. It's the only course to take. 

He spares Dean's lifeless body one more look, gives the limp hand still in his one last squeeze, then he's on his feet looking at her, squaring his shoulders. “I'm ready.”

She looks suspicious. He doesn't blame her. “For good, Sam. Both of you. No return ticket.” 

“I'm ready,” he says again. She stares at him for a few seconds longer, then reaches for his hand. He takes hers and closes his eyes. 

There's no white light, no fanfare. No feeling of motion or movement. Just warmth on his face, and that beloved voice in his ears. 

“Heya Sammy.”


End file.
